


Bruises and Bite Marks

by Random_Sedan



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU of an AU, And yet still so similar, Asphyxiation, Bondage, But different, Consensual, Dom/sub, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Kind of like 'Extinguished', M/M, Semi-Consensual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Sedan/pseuds/Random_Sedan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You're in a place for fear, lips are for biting here"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>------</p><p>Pitch helps Death relax after a rough day.</p><p>Based in the same premise as 'Extignuished', just kind of warped for the fun of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises and Bite Marks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDoodle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDoodle/gifts).



> Written for Esperage, who is truly an amazing individual. Thank you for your support and kind, thoughtful comments, as well as your encouragement! <3
> 
> Named after and inspired by the song "Bruises and Bite Marks" by Good with Grenades.
> 
> Basically, this is an offshoot of the fic 'Extinguished', wherein things are different, and mostly consensual. 
> 
> ...But still pretty fucked up.

He can still taste the bite of salty flavor - the GHB that was mixed with the wine - as well as the rich, smooth aftertaste of the alcohol itself burning on his tongue. And Lord Death can taste it, too, on his breath when their mouths meet; wet, insistent muscle laving across the facets of teeth.

It’s sloppy, hot, wet, tongues meeting and slurping and sharp teeth catching his lower lip until the skin bleeds. And Pitch doesn’t mind. He likes it, loves how he can feel himself smiling, feel his eyes roll up behind his lids, feel a bubble of chemically-induced excitement in his chest and heat flaring further down. 

Because _damn it_ Death’s deep, lusty kisses and wandering hands feel so good when he’s high, even though they’re bruising and clawing at his slender frame. Leaving marks that will last for days, that will make him remember this every time the injuries ache beneath his clothes.

And he wants that. 

Fuck the Guardians. Fuck the children that don’t remember him. He has _this_. 

When their mouths part to accommodate desperate gasps, Pitch is vaguely aware that there’s a little blood and saliva on his lips and chin, but he can’t quite seem to mind, not when Death is forcing the Boogeyman’s black, shadowy robe apart to gain access to the lean, sensitive grey flesh beneath. He tries to lick the wet mess on his mouth away, but Death seems content to kiss away his efforts, drawing a laugh from him. 

He sounds none too refined or clever in this state, not that he cares. It’s not as if his lover has never seen him this way before; if anything, the larger immortal seems to enjoy when his inhibitions decay, when he can’t shut up beneath him and can’t keep his legs closed for long.

The muscles of his stomach twitch and tremble when a rough hand palms upwards from his exposed navel, fingers spreading to feel the warmth of as much ashen flesh as the larger man can reach. 

When a digit swipes roughly over a hard nipple, Pitch grunts, cock giving an excited jerk in his pants. He’s already aroused and only growing harder, and he wants to feel everything, wants Death to remind him exactly what those hands can do to him. How far he can be pushed and stretched.

When Death looks at him, crimson eyes wild and dark, pupils so dilated Pitch can see the firelight reflected in them, the smaller immortal shudders and winds his long fingers into ragged garnet hair, scratching lightly at his lover’s scalp. “I should thank your Grims for pissing you off so thoroughly today,” he breathes, barely realizing what’s coming out of his mouth, just thinking out loud with a slow smirk and wriggling hips. 

He keeps kissing the larger man’s face, words stilled momentarily as he busies himself with sucking a dark, bruising hickey into the soft flesh beneath Death’s jaw. He should get to leave some marks too, after all, he thinks in a daze.

“Hmm, why is that?” Death growls with a toothy sneer, pinching an erect nub on his companion’s chest with his fingernails and drawing out a particularly lovely sound from slack black lips. “You like that I’ve had a frustratingly difficult day? That I take it out on you? That I drug you until you’re pliant and easily opened beneath my fingertips because I’m in no mood for your backtalk?” 

Pitch’s chest feels too shallow to breathe properly, suffocating his attempt to snicker as he lies beneath the larger immortal. “Yes, precisely,” he whispers, leaning up to trace the tip of his tongue along the ridge of his lover’s pointed ear. “Because you’re so deliciously rough with me when you’re angry.” Grey hands descend beneath the blood-red fur of Death’s cape, smoothing over the heavily muscled chest. “We get high…” He drags his teeth over the sensitive earlobe as his thumbs simultaneously stroke circles on dark, hard nipples, eliciting a groan from the man above him. “…And then you fuck me so hard and mercilessly that I wonder if I’ll ever be tight enough to please you again,” he finishes with a shaky exhale, quivering at the thought. 

Shivering at the memory of nights spent with his legs wrapped tightly around Death’s waist, digging his heels into the small of his lover’s back to spur him onward, willing body opened wide to take in every hard, punishing thrust of the larger immortal’s swollen cock.

An ecstatic moan is his response, snarled against his neck before the teeth come gnashing down. Pitch gasps as the skin breaks beneath the onslaught, wrapping his shaking arms around the larger man to ground himself. He feels as if he’ll slip through the sheets and tumble into a freefall if he doesn’t hold on for dear life. 

It hurts _so good_ , it makes his head spin.

Death sucks greedily against the wound, nails raking over the expanse of Pitch’s slender chest, leaving hot red welts in their wake. The sensation of suction and stinging pain is so pleasurable, so hot, and Pitch groans and arches up into his partner’s embrace. He bucks his hips, head swimming as the drug seeps fully into his system, and he barks out a lilting laugh. Nothing’s funny, but Death’s lips and hands upon him feel so perfect, it feels like a decent reaction. And he doesn’t care if it isn’t. 

He chuckles when the pressure of teeth finally lets up and Death glowers over him with a twisted grin. “I’m going to maul every inch of you,” the larger man snarls, eyes flickering down the length of bitten grey neck, obstructed only by a rounded pyrope gemstone nestled in the dip between his collarbones. 

Death’s gift to him that the Boogeyman wears so proudly, to match the large, resplendent garnet that the larger immortal has affixed at his own throat. To show everyone who seems them, together or apart, that the Boogeyman belongs to Death and Death alone.

“And when I’m done,” the larger man breathes out slowly, fingernails dragging along trembling flesh to rest at the hem of dark trousers beneath him, “there won’t be a single place on your body I haven’t marked.”

Death’s massive hand seizes his neck without warning, cutting off his air supply, and Pitch writhes as his mouth falls open instinctively. He’s a little miffed that Death didn’t even give him the chance to agree, to tell him that yes, yes, he wants every bit of that, wants his skin to ache for days with every impression Death leaves, but he can’t find it in himself to mind as his lungs begin to ache and his vision wavers, cock throbbing.

The garnet-haired immortal reaches down with his free hand to palm the Boogeyman’s straining erection through his pants, and Pitch’s hips jump to meet his grasp, rolling forward to connect with every inch of friction, pressing their bodies hard together. 

His hands wrap firmly around Death’s thick wrist and arm, carefully avoiding the pinprick in the crook of his elbow. Grey, spindly fingers grip and twist, but not in an attempt to dislodge Death’s bruising grip on his windpipe, only to give himself an anchor as he roils in ecstasy. Give him a purchase for leverage as he bucks mindlessly, grinding up into Death’s hand for the sweet, erotic pressure even as the air grows stale in his lungs. 

And by everything dark and unholy, he loves to feel himself slipping away as he chokes, as he fights for breath and the rush of oxygen deprivation twines tightly and sensually with the high of the drug and everything _spins_ so perfectly. Spins and falters in his failing vision until his eyes roll back, and he can’t see or smell or taste, just _feels_ and feels _everything_ Death gives him, every firm caress between his legs and the heaviness of his rough, cool palm against his bared throat.

The depleted breath finally comes free of his lungs in a shuddering exhale when the larger immortal releases him, and Pitch arches and coughs when he can finally take a shuddering inhale. He pants with a smile he knows is nothing close to suave, but he can’t be bothered to look or sound smooth and in control when he feels just the opposite, rolling his hips up with a ragged, wanton moan. 

“Come on, Death, please. As fond of me as you claim to be, you don’t seem too fussed that I am quite likely to _die of anticipation_ if you aren’t inside of me in the next thirty seconds.” Pitch grinds his hardness up against Death’s own confined erection, hoping to convince him to _just move_ , anything to alleviate the pressure building in him. While his statement might have been just a touch overdramatic, it certainly feels like it’s true enough.

He receives a slap across the cheek, but it’s not nearly as harsh as he’s used to. Just a warning shot from his chronically-violent lover.

Death looks down at him, a cruel scowl on his lips that does not look entirely sincere. “I’ll have to give you a bigger dose next time. I specifically drug you to keep you from giving me lip, Pitch.” He strokes his thumb over the reddening mark, as if to apologize for having to make it.

But Pitch merely grins, mind pervaded only by blissful static, barely registering the pain of the strike. He looks up at his companion with mischief and lust in his shining, brass and silver eyes. “Oh, now love, don’t act as if you don’t like _the lip I give_ ,” the Boogeyman chuckles, grasping at Death’s hand to pull his fingers deeply into his mouth and sucking purposefully. 

He feels nails against the back of his throat, but he keeps up the suction, flicking his tongue along the seam between the two digits held securely up to the knuckle between his dark lips. 

It’s hard to remember any sort of technique, considering Death usually won’t demand that Pitch please the larger immortal with his mouth - he really doesn’t have the right teeth for the task - so he just maneuvers Death’s hand to slide the wet fingers in and out of the tightness of his mouth in slow, deliberate motions, humming against the tanned, olive-toned flesh.

He pants through his nose, breath still short as he pops the fingers free from his mouth with an audible, lewd sound that leaves Death’s jaw agape. Pitch smirks at the sight, teasing his lover with a slow swipe of the wet muscle over his bruised lips. “Because I know you do.”

Death has just enough presence of mind to raise his brows in defiance as a smirk creeps over his thin lips. “Actually, I’d rather you silent.” The larger immortal pulls away, just enough to reach into the bedside drawer and collect a few choice items. He tosses three of them onto the sheets beside the panting Boogeyman; a long, black, leather lash, a package of condoms, and a familiar bottle of lubricant. The last object, though, Death keeps in hands with a wicked smile. “Let’s go ahead and ensure that you stay quiet, hmm?”

Pitch shivers as his companion situates the ball gag past his black lips, putting up no resistance when the soft plastic slips behind his teeth. Then the strap is snapped securely at the back of his head, and the Boogeyman closes his eyes and lets out a muffled moan. 

He was loathe to admit it at first, but he really, really likes this little device. He thought he surely wouldn’t when his lover first forced it into his mouth so many weeks ago; the way it turns his usual eloquence into garbled nonsense and makes his cheeks look even more hollow, but well… Death has a way of making him enjoy things he never had considered before. It was exciting, seeing what the depraved immortal wanted to do or use in bed next. 

Pitch stretches his arms above his head obediently, wrists together, allowing Death to wrap the black lash securely around them and tie him to the headboard. When he’s done, the slender immortal gingerly tugs at the restraint, slowly putting more of his weight into it to test the knot. It holds, doesn’t slip, and the leather digs into his skin as he strains against it. Satisfied, Pitch relaxes and looks up at Death expectantly, spreading his knees invitingly. 

He can’t beg now, so he makes a point to try and lure Death back into action with his body, canting his hips up just so and letting his head loll backwards, exposing his neck that is already darkening with bruises and bloodied with bite marks. He makes a soft, keening whimper through the gag, looking up at his crouching lover through his lashes. He hopes his body language looks as sexy as it feels, because he’s getting far too hot and has not had nearly enough touching.

But Death remains perfectly still, like a revered statue of an ancient, bloodstained deity. Someone who is not familiar with the garnet-haired immortal might think him disinterested and unmoved by the display before him. But Pitch knows him, knows him so, so intimately well, and can see every telltale sign that his show has effected its target audience. 

He can see how fast the larger man is breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath. The movement of his shoulders stirs the thick pile of his fur-lined cloak, and it makes it look as if the pelt is part of him, undulating with every deep exhale that rattles him to the core.

The tight lines of his face are another betrayal of his arousal, the muscles beneath his eyes taut with exertion. His lips are drawn into a firm, thin smile, and his hands at Pitch’s hips clench tightly with the effort to remain in control.

Pitch has to hand it to him, even with the heroin coursing through his veins, even with the show the Boogeyman is putting on for him, Death manages to look completely impassive, level-headed and collected. He will not move because Pitch wants him to. He will move when, and _only when_ he is ready to, only when he feels as if he has tormented the Boogeyman sufficiently. 

And apparently he has not reached that threshold yet.

Growling, Death quickly and easily drags Pitch’s pants down and off of his slender hips, the Boogeyman hissing when his confined erection springs free of the fabric. It’s flushed darkly, already leaking precome that glistens at the tip, and Pitch groans, tugging feebly at the leather that binds his hands. He doesn’t really want to get away, but he would very much enjoy being able to touch himself, to ease the tension and heat settling deep in his abdomen, since Death doesn’t appear interesting in making any effort to do so.

He wants to be filled, wants his lover so badly he aches with it, so he begs, begs shamelessly with his body, arching his back off of the sheets damp with his sweat. He is not proud of the noises he makes, they don’t sound human, let alone dignified, but he wants Death so, so much, and he’ll debase himself as much as necessary to get what he needs. 

When his hips roll up again, desperate for contact, Death frowns and reaches down to plug his partner’s nose between his fingers. Pitch lurches sharply, sucking against the plastic in his mouth to try and get some air past it, but to no avail. And the garnet-haired immortal just chortles, watches his lover writhe and buck and pull helplessly against the strap at his wrists. “You let me do this to you,” he whispers, leaning in to nibble on a grey earlobe, making the Boogeyman jump. “And you’ll wait until I’m ready to take you.”

Nodding desperately, Pitch’s head begins to spin again, suffocating, brain coming apart at the seams and body tingling and heavy even as his thrashing grows more wild and uncoordinated. And oh, how he just wishes Death would _touch him_ , stroke him, he’s burning up from the inside with the _need_ for it. 

Finally he is let go, and Pitch takes in several frenzied breaths through his nose, quaking with the effort to refill his burning, aching lungs. He closes his eyes tightly, continuing to nod, to show his submission, as long as it means being rewarded with the touch he longs for. A strangled sound escapes him, a needy whine trapped behind the gag. 

Death seems to approve of it, sliding his palms over Pitch’s trembling thighs, leaving scratches on the soft grey flesh. “That’s right. Much better. You know your place.” His voice is rough, deep, and the slender immortal cracks open his eyes, desperate to see the look on his lover’s face. 

The larger man still appears every inch the controlled Lord of Death, crimson eyes sparkling with murderous glee, dry mouth twisted sharply at the corners into a look that would be terrifying, if it didn’t mean that Pitch was about to get what he wanted. He spreads his legs further almost unconsciously, a soft, apprehensive groan catching in the back of his throat. 

A bemused laugh reaches his ears, just over the sound of a glass stopper being removed. When Pitch looks, Death is applying a thick coat of subtly-scented lubricant over his hand and fingers, and the Boogeyman jerks and squirms excitedly at the sight, tugging at his restraints. He tries to snake his ankle about the other man’s waist, tries to pull him in closer, but Death snorts and slaps his foot away. “Lie still or I’ll leave you like this.” 

Even though it’s said with a wicked smile, the slender immortal knows very well that it is no joke, that Death will let him remain unsatisfied all night if he doesn’t obey. With a great deal of willpower, he slowly settles himself back to the bed, feverishly breathing through his nostrils. He tilts his head to the side, eyes fastened on his smirking, triumphant lover as the larger man closes the bottle in his free hand. 

Tossing the green glass to the mattress beside them, Death sheds his cape with a single hand, whirling it off and over his head with a dramatic flourish. The deep red material flutters to the floor, forgotten, as the larger immortal leans in between Pitch’s legs. Two slick, wet fingertips pause against his opening, applying the barest of pressure. Touching, waiting, but not pressing inside.

_Fuck._

The Boogeyman sucks in a deep, frustrated breath, nails digging into his palms to hold himself still. This is a test, and he dares not buck onto those fingers, no matter how much he wants it. His legs shake and he can’t hold back a stifled moan, but he does not press his body onto Death’s hand. If he does, his lover will only pull away, will stop completely. He has to wait, has to hold back, even if it is slowly but surely killing him.

Smoothing downwards from Pitch’s clavicles, the nails of Death’s free hand carve into the skin just beneath the slender pectoral muscles, drawing dark blood to the surface. The smaller immortal arches up, gasping through his nose, but he still does not impale himself on those fingers, straining and fighting against every impulse to just seat himself down.

“That’s good,” the garnet-haired immortal growls, pleased, eyes half-lidded as he circles the pads of his fingers around the dusky, puckered entrance, making Pitch whimper, “doing as you’re told. Waiting for my command, my actions. So good. Very well done, aren’t you so well-behaved for me?” 

His noises are beginning to sound like sobs when Death’s hand descends torturously slow down to touch Pitch’s cock, ghosting fingertips along the shaft and over-sensitive head. He wants to scream, every muscle coiled tightly to hold himself back, and he feels as if he just might explode if the larger man doesn’t start to move his hand, push his fingers in, do something, do anything, _fuck him_.

And then, finally, one hand grips his erection tightly as two lubricated digits slide easily into him, and Pitch moans enthusiastically past the plastic between his lips. 

He wishes he weren’t gagged, just for a moment, just so that he could thank his lover for finally showing him mercy, giving him what he wants, what he needs. But he can’t, so he just groans to the best of his ability and lets his head fall backward, hips moving in slow, gyrating circles to meet Death’s hands as he pumps his fingers in and out of the Boogeyman’s willing body. 

The palm on his manhood works in a slow, twisting rhythm; down and then up, thumb grazing over the ridges of his gathered foreskin before tapping teasingly at the slit, smearing the liquid beading there. And then the cycle continues, over and over, driving the Boogeyman absolutely wild. 

Pitch’s hips jump at the larger immortal’s ministrations, muffled voice desperate and wet and broken as he tries so hard to convey his appreciation and pleasure. He only hopes Death knows how much he loves this, how grateful he is for it, how perfect the fingers inside his ass and around his cock feel. 

He whimpers into the gag when a third finger is added, it only hurts a little, and he pulls on the leather lash at his wrists just to feel the material sink into his flesh, trying to bury Death’s fingers further inside of him, get them deeper. He braces his feet flat against the mattress to give himself purchase to buck fully onto his lover’s hand, drawing a smothered, protracted moan from him.

Death smiles down at the sight of his companion, watching him lose himself in the sensation of the larger man’s fingers and hand caressing him, fondling him, probing thoroughly into his body, gradually prying him open. Stilling his hands, Death leans back and lowers his head to leer at the location where his three digits disappear into Pitch’s body. His spreads his muscular fingers apart as wide as he can, catching the harried, stuttering sound of protest it earns him. Death smirks, slowly dragging his digits free of the tight ring of muscle. 

“As good as you look with my fingers buried in you,” the larger man snickers, reaching to the hem of his trousers to unfasten them, “there’s still the matter of _my_ pleasure to attend to.” He pulls his erection free, licking his lips dryly as he snags a condom and opens the packaging.

Pitch cranes his neck to watch his lover ready himself, wrecked and trembling and struggling to breathe properly. He isn’t sure why, but it makes him so hot to see Death rolling the thin latex sleeve over his cock, watching his member twitch at the light little brushes against it. Knowing his lover cares enough to use them, even when he complains about the lack of sensation, touches him. Because Death could simply choose not to put them on, despite the consequences, despite the Boogeyman’s near-begging for the use of them, but he always does. For Pitch, and only for Pitch.

With the condom on, Death sidles in close, one hand grasping the Boogeyman’s hip sharply, the other at the base of his cock, and he aligns himself and pushes in.

Pitch shivers and tries to force himself to relax, hairless brow drawing in tightly as he’s breached, feeling the cool smoothness of the latex slide against his inner walls as he’s filled. His chest heaves, toes curling and fingers clenching at the delightful burn. _Yes, yes, finally, yes._

Death only stops when he’s seated up to the hilt, growling and making every attempt to control his breathing. His digs his nails into Pitch’s pelvis, ripping the skin when he drags them sharply down, just to feel the way his lover’s body clenches and shudders around his cock. Death snickers at the half-pained, half-aroused noise it draws from the slender immortal before he begins to thrust.

It isn’t slow, it never is, and really Pitch prefers it this way, after all the teasing. Death controls the rhythm, fists keeping his hips in place as the larger immortal plunges in deep and fast. 

The Boogeyman weaves his fingers tightly over the leather strap for leverage as he moves in time with Death, pressing himself down against each savage thrust. Their skin slaps together where they connect, pallid grey and lightly-tanned, olive flesh rippling and sliding and working out a rising tempo together. 

Struggling to breathe through his nostrils, Pitch moans and shivers, legs straining to angle Death just right when the larger immortal slams into him. Every press against his prostate makes him jostle, sends electricity through the base of his spine and builds pressure in his belly. Death doesn’t relent, and he is grateful for it, riding the tide of his companion’s savage lust. 

His own neglected member throbs painfully, bouncing with the force of their harsh, sweeping movements, and Pitch longs to take it in his hand to ease the ache. He twists in his bonds, eyes clenched tightly closed, huffing and growing more and more overwhelmed by Death’s vigorous thrusts. 

He knows he would already be coming if he could just stroke himself, but feeling the deep, roiling pleasure starting low in his back and slowly, erotically creeping through his nerves almost makes up for it. He feels himself loosing control, body shaking and voice thin and high. He hooks one leg around Death’s muscular torso and presses his lover in harder, whimpering as the larger immortal gives him just what he needs. 

A firm hand cupping his tightening balls, another squeezing and fisting his dribbling erection. Several hard, shallow rolls of his hips, cock nudging his prostate relentlessly, and he can feel every muscle seize in a perfect cacophony. 

It crashes through him, harsh and agonizingly delicious, rhythmic pulses splintering every coherent thought and feeble attempt for breath. His body clamps down around Death’s cock as he comes with a tremulous whine, back arching off of the sheets. And through his shuddering orgasm he can hear Death’s low, emphatic groan, can feel every junction where their bodies are jammed together. His seed splashes against his own slim stomach, warm and thick.

It takes longer for him to come down when he’s high, and he’s still coasting through the aftershocks when Death starts to move again. Hurried, vicious strokes of his hips plow Pitch’s tensed body into the mattress, wresting a moan from his hoarse throat. 

Animalistic growls and snarls spill from Death’s mouth, the noise of them drowning out his partner’s muffled whimpers, and the larger immortal tosses his head back, finally shouting as he stills and pulses deep inside of Pitch.

The two lay still for several long moments, Death’s breath coming in quick, disheveled bursts against Pitch’s heaving chest as the larger immortal lowers himself onto his lover’s body. When the Boogeyman slowly regains his bearings, he glances down to see Death’s discolored eyelids closed, every line of his face relaxed in bliss, and he’s overcome by the sudden urge to kiss every angle of his lover’s cheeks and lips. 

It isn’t long before Pitch wriggles restlessly, and the garnet-haired immortal sighs before he straightens himself up. He uses two fingers to hold the condom in place over his cock as he slides free of Pitch’s tightness, both of them groaning from the loss of contact. He slips the thin latex off of himself, careful not to spill the contents, and stands to dispose of it, smirking as he leaves the Boogeyman tied to his bed. 

Pitch doesn’t fret, though. He knows Death won’t leave him for long, not after coming. The larger immortal is always most gentle and affectionate post-coitus, so the Boogeyman relaxes and waits patiently until his partner returns.

It doesn’t take long, and Pitch is glad for it, because his jaw aches and his hands have started to go numb. He looks up lovingly at the other man when Death leans over him to unfasten the strap of the gag, carefully slipping it free of Pitch’s black lips. The slender immortal coughs once, working his sore jaw open and closed several times as Death turns to the knotted leather at his wrists. 

When he’s unfastened, Pitch sits up gingerly, pulling his arms in close to stretch them and rub at his chafed wrists, and his eyes catch Death’s gaze. They look at each other meaningfully for several long seconds, and Pitch feels words bubbling up in his throat, but he can’t bear to say them. 

He’s been with Death for two years now, and still, he can’t say it. Now matter how many times Pitch thinks about how lucky he is that his lover hasn’t grown bored with him and discarded him like so much trash, thinks about how well Death cares for him, how much, surely, Death must love him… 

But he can’t say it. 

He doesn’t want to break the spell, whatever this is that makes him happy, that keeps him in his lover’s arms. He doesn’t dare speak and risk ruining it. 

So instead Pitch averts his eyes, smiling smugly as he gently takes Death’s larger hand into his own, pressing kisses over the knuckles.

“Are you going to take another hit?” 

Death shakes his head tiredly, licking his dry, thin lips before he climbs back into bed behind Pitch, clutching the slender immortal’s back close to his chest, as he always does when they prepare for slumber. “No. Maybe. After we sleep.”

Pitch nods absently, eyes closing as he snuggles further into his lover’s embrace, sighing when large, muscular arms wind around him protectively. In a few hours, he’ll probably wake up swelteringly hot and have to fight off the larger man’s heavy limbs to get a cool breeze, but for now, he wants the closeness, the steady throb of Death‘s heartbeat against his shoulder and softened cock against his thigh.

The high may be over, but the afterglow will last a while, and it won’t be long, Pitch knows, before Death is bound to have another terrible day.


End file.
